The Morning of My Life
by shan14
Summary: He doesn't want to move from the balcony – his limbs feel like they've settled into the chair for good but its been so damn long since he's had a woman wearing hardly any clothes in his kitchen and the fact that its her, not just anyone, is enough to make his skin tingle until he moves.


A/N: set somewhere vague in season 2. basically it was an excuse to write them making out because _damn_ they both looked good in the last episode okay.

* * *

It's too early to be considered sane and the air is chilly and leaves his fingers feeling frozen. Despite that, the sun is rising over the city and Will likes watching as it creeps up along the high rises, casting shadows onto the streets below where already the cars and taxis are beginning their daily symphony.

He's wearing the t-shirt and sweat pants he slept in and a pair of old socks that were white once upon a time. There's a thin sheen of frost on the glass fencing the balcony, and his half-cold mug of coffee sits beside him. The ashtray is smoldering and he has a lit cigarette dangling from his fingertips but he almost can't be bothered to bring it to his lips – everything is lazy and muzzy in his head and he's happy to let it rest against the back of the chair and let the cold and the fresh bite of the wind and the mingling coffee and smoke wash over him.

He feels calm in a way he hasn't in months – and not an induced calm, rather one born of a good nights sleep, with aching muscles that haven't been used in years and a heavy, hot feeling in his heart that he's missed.

Sex is good for stress, apparently, and he'd almost forgotten that.

There's a scuffle behind the glass door and when he tips his head back she's stood about a meter away from him, barefoot and without pants and with only the hem of his dress shirt falling to her thighs. She has the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and he doesn't know how she isn't shivering – she was never good in the cold, and when he looks closer he can see her fingers are white from how tight she's holding them.

"You weren't in bed," she murmurs, and he shrugs, not sure how to answer.

Her eyes dart across his face quickly and he wanders what on earth she's thinking. He doesn't know where her head is anymore. Sometimes he thinks she might be miles away.

Her gaze falls on his fingers where the cigarette is still lit and for a second he thinks she might be disappointed, but then she's back looking at his face and he gets caught thinking about how red her lips are in the early morning when the air is so cold and how good she looks after sex. He'd forgotten that as well – the way her skin blushes and her hair gets tangled and how her neck marks so easily, even when he isn't trying.

"Am I going, then?" she asks, her words masking the real question, "or can I stay for coffee?"

There's an awkward pause and then she shuffles from foot to foot, the cold obviously getting to her now she's been stood outside for more than a second, and he takes pity on her, "there's coffee in the kitchen," he mutters, and she hops inside gratefully.

He doesn't want to move from the balcony – his limbs feel like they've settled into the chair for good but its been so damn long since he's had a woman wearing hardly any clothes in his kitchen and the fact that its _her_, not just anyone, is enough to make his skin tingle until he moves. He stubs the cigarette out and catches the handle of his coffee mug on his pinky and with a groan, straightens himself out to pad back into the apartment.

She's ruffling though the fridge when he walks in and he can see where the hem of his shirt has ridden up high on the backs of her thighs, leaving creamy white skin to be appreciated.

"Do you have _any_ food?" she gripes without turning and he wonders how long she knew he was standing there. He'd expected her to be more nervous this morning, but she's almost aloof as she reaches passed a carton of milk in search of butter.

"There's eggs," he responds, and walking around the bench he sets his mug onto the counter. She has one out as well – a copper coloured mug he doesn't remember owning – and has filled it to the brim with steaming coffee.

He glances at her and she's staring back at him in despair, "How on earth do you survive?" she bemoans, and he shrugs in disinterest – honestly his health and wellbeing isn't much of a priority.

"Are you done?" he asks after a minute of her rampage, and she huffs in annoyance but nods and steps back from the fridge. "And can I have my shirt back?" he adds.

It's entirely too distracting having her wearing it, and she has a perfectly good pair of pants and a shirt scattered across his bedroom floor. She's blushing, however, as she picks up the mug beside him and it takes him a moment to realise even as she mutters, "I can't. I lost a button."

"A button? Really?"

"I wasn't the overzealous one last night," she replies haughtily, and takes a sip of coffee with her eyebrows arched over the mugs rim.

_Overzealous?_

If he remembers correctly they were both a little too eager to get each other's clothes off and he isn't sure if that's because it's been a long time for both of them, or if it's because it's been a long time _since_ them. Either way, the first time had been quick and fun and much too intense for his heart to handle.

"Will?" she prods, and he startles, glancing at her.

And he thinks fuck it. Fuck all of it.

He pulls the mug from her hands and sets it down on the bench beside her and then with a strength he only remembers he has in times of desperate need he picks her up at the hips and sits her on the bench top, swallowing her startled gasp with his mouth and nipping at her bottom lip until she submits. Her legs go to his hips and he mumbles appreciatively as she curls them around his thighs and back tightly; it tugs her body closer to his and he takes the opportunity to curl both arms around her torso and to tangle a hand up in her locks. Her lips are warm from the coffee and he can taste it at the back of her mouth and fuck, he thinks, he's always loved kissing her – she's passionate about everything in life and even more so when it feels like she's trying to kiss the life from him. Her legs hitch higher around his waist and he rocks her backwards a little, lets her cradle his face between her hands and when he opens his eyes he goes cross-eyed trying to watch her face until she drops her head to his chest and breaths heavily.

"You taste like smoke," she complains, but her voice is high and sweet and only slightly annoyed. Without moving his head away he grabs for her mug of coffee blindly and takes a long sip of it and by the time he's set it back down on the bench she has a hand curled at the base of his neck and is tugging him forward enthusiastically, worrying his bottom lip between her teeth.

"Better?" he bites out between kisses and she hums delightedly against him, letting one hand trail down his back to tug at his shirt.

"No sex in the kitchen," he breathes against her lips when she manages to get a hand down to his pants and he laughs as she grumbles unintelligibly.

"That's a stupid rule," she finally mutters and he would agree, only he think he's probably a bit too old to try sex on a bench.

"Bed or nothing."

"Bed," she announces, quick.

He leans in close and holds her head still between both hands to kiss her deeply and when he finally finishes her eyes are fluttery and sleepy and she has a small smile on her lips. He tugs at her waist to try and move her forward but as she unlocks her legs from where they're hitched tight around his hips she groans and lets her head fall forward, nuzzling his neck.

"Work," she grumbles, and he freezes, remembering the time.

"I have to go, I'm sorry –"

"Yeah, no," he sighs, knocking her head up with his nose until she's gazing at him.

"Are we going to talk about this?" she whispers, and her face is so close that he can feel her breath on his cheeks.

"Is there much to talk about?"

He can feel the moment her body stiffens and he hates that he's never been better at this – but at the same time he doesn't know what they could possibly say beyond we were tired and stressed and we're obviously still attracted to each other and anyone could see that the tension between us was about to strangle us both.

Her body relaxes slightly and then she's combing her fingers through his hair delicately, rubbing her thumb at the base of his neck for a second before she's gently pushing him away. "I'll see you at work?" she says softly and Will lets her slide off the counter in front of him.

He nods mutely, but trails after her into the bedroom and watches her pick her clothes piece by piece from the floor. "I want to talk to Sloan and Jerry about that report from the DOJ sometime today," he tells her, and she straightens with her shirt in her hand, turning towards him.

She has a frown in her forehead and Will feels something strange in his gut, like perhaps he said the wrong thing.

"I'll make sure they're free," she nods slowly, and Will grunts a thank you.

Her bra is sitting next to his bedside table and he's isn't sure if she knows that and it's so strange to have her underwear in his face whilst they discuss work again. He doesn't know how he feels about it.

She's out the door minutes later and Will feels a little cold now, like the heavy, comfortable feeling in his chest from the morning is rapidly evaporating and leaving the horrible floating feeling of nothing in its wake.

"Mackenzie?" he calls from the door and she turns on her way to the elevator.

She's still wearing his shirt underneath her leather jacket and he feels something hot spread through him.

"We'll talk later, yeah?"

And she smiles slightly, and he thinks, _good._


End file.
